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#cyclamen
amandaherzman · 4 months
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December's herbologist reward is the the cyclamen, also known as sowbread! This sweet little low growing bloom has fascinated and bewitched humans for centuries. If you'd like these postcard prints and the written folklore of this plant sent your way, please consider supporting my patreon!
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huariqueje · 6 months
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Cyclamen - Riek Wesseling , 1944-45.
Dutch,1914-1995
Pencil on paper , 45 x 31 cm..
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angiec333 · 24 days
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Pretty pink Cyclamen flowers
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alrobertsphotography · 6 months
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Cyclamen
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hanelizabeth · 7 days
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Cyclamen ~ Resignation 🌷
- a recreation of Jesse Blackthorn’s flower card -
characters by @cassandraclare 🤍
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heaveninawildflower · 5 months
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Cyclamen (undated) by Anton Hartinger (1806 – 1890).
Watercolour.
Belvedere.
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thunderstruck9 · 4 months
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Henri Manguin (French, 1874-1949), Nature morte aux cyclamens [Still Life with Cyclamens], 1912. Oil on canvas, 97.5 x 130.3 cm.
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clawmarks · 11 months
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Les Plantes médicinales indigènes et exotiques, leurs usages thérapeutiques, pharmaceutiques et industriels - Georges Dujardin-Beaumetz - 1889 - via Gallica
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Mather with cyclamen blossom
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Edward H. Weston ~ Margrethe Mather holding cyclamen in vase, 1921 [two blooms in vase]. Platinum or palladium print | src CCP · University of Arizona view on wordPress
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Edward H. Weston ~ Untitled [Margrethe Mather, holding cyclamen blossom], 1921. Platinum or palladium print | src CCP · Univ. Arizona
view on wordPress
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samirafee · 1 month
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#CYCLAMEN🩷❤️💜
@samirafee
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boschintegral-photo · 4 months
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Cyclamen Barcelona, Spain
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huariqueje · 9 months
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Cyclamen -   Charles Demuth, 1915.
American, 1883–1935
Watercolour,  10 1/2 x 8 in.
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resimlerin-dili · 1 year
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waywardangel-wilds · 11 days
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Cyclamen
I've decided to make this a short story with maybe 3 chapters. I finished the first one:
“Oh hush, you.”
“Stranger tales have been woven.”
“What can a no-good fool know about such things,” the woman hmphed, “To speak of them.”
“I may be a fool, but I’m no less wiser,” the man winked. His eyes were riddled with cataracts, but they sparkled. The children huddled close by; their little heads eagerly tilted with the promise of a story.
“Papa, please tell us,” One of them begged, her little hands pulling insistently at the old man’s knee. “Please!”
“You’ve done it now,” his wife turned back to her knitting needles.
“Well, it’s as they say. Once, long ago, on a winter night just like this one, old man Everdeen heard it.”
“What did he hear?” one of the youngsters gasped.
“Three knocks,” he whispered and slowly, so slowly, brought a fist aloft.
“One,” he struck his knuckles against the arm of his chair.
“Two,” the children’s eyes followed his every movement.
“Three.”
The howling winds were ferocious that night. They screamed and scratched against the walls, rattling the window shutters, and pushing up against the door. The cold was like no other. The cruelest winter in three generations. With it, hunger and illness stole in, unwelcome guests to every household, perfumed with the stench of death.
The house was small, a cottage of just one room. There was a fire, a table for eating, two beds, and nothing else. That was all there was, in those days. All there could be.
Old Man Everdeen had a wife and two children. Two lovely daughters, one fair and golden and one bronze and ebony. He loved them, dearly. They were all he had. He would have done anything, sacrificed anything, his health, his life, his sanity, but that was not what the bear wanted from him.
Old Man Everdeen had a daughter made of iron. She took care of him and their family without complaint. Every day, without fail since the mineshaft took his legs. It troubled him, to be so useless, to be cumbersome. But his daughter, his lovely daughter, she was as radiant as the sun.
That evening, desperation was their guest. The cupboards were bare, and the coal would run out. The wind kept screaming, screeching, all around, as they huddled close to the fire. Waiting. For death? For an unknown guest?
And then it came.
The knocks were heavy. Final. They sucked the air out of the room and hushed the blizzard. He ceased breathing.  Even the mice paused. It came once, twice, three times.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Papa,” his youngest daughter whispered. “Who’s there?”
“Everdeen,” the voice spoke inside his mind. “Everdeen. We must all pay our debts.”
His iron daughter stood.
“No!” he reached out, but she was a step too far. “Katniss!”
“They might need our help,” she replied earnestly. Innocently. Kindly.  He would have stood if he could. “I’ll be alright, Papa.”
“Everdeen,” the voice spoke to him again.
His daughter’s feet whispered against the floorboards. She never made a sound. His little lynx. She was his little hunter, his little Katniss bloom. She already had twenty summers, but to him, she’d always be his toothy girl, bobbing in the river, all sharp knees, and elbows, shouting Papa! Papa! Look what I can do!
The door creaked open, but only slightly, to keep the cold air out. His daughter gasped and scrambled backwards, tripping over a chair. She fell hard on the ground, but that was the least of their concerns. The door swung open as flurries of snow blanketed the wooden floor. His wife cried out at his side and his other daughter screamed. But he didn’t make a sound. Somehow, he had known. He’d always known things would end like this.
The white bear took one step and then another into the house. It stared at him, unblinking, with eyes the color of the northern sea. Yes, he’d known, how could he have forgotten? We must all pay our debts.
“You are a poor man, Everdeen.” The bear spoke to him alone. “What have you for me?”
“Nothing,” he whispered in reply, to his wife’s bewilderment.
“Spruce?” she asked, staring at him as he remained calm before the bear. She stood, shaking, but with their youngest hidden behind her. “What’s the meaning of this?”
“Ah!” His eldest daughter screamed, rushing up behind the bear with one of their hunting knives above her head. It was reckless and desperate, but just like her to try and protect him once more.
“Stop!” he exclaimed, and she did. She stood wild-eyed and panting, the knife still brandished in her hands. “It means no harm.”
The bear turned its large head and gazed down at his daughter. She stared back defiantly but she was afraid. And how couldn’t she be? With a bear in their home and a debt to pay?
“I have nothing.” He insisted once more. “No gold, no riches, not even bread to break. Oh, Great Northern Bear, have mercy on my family, and take me alone.”
“What?” His wife shouted just as his eldest daughter gasped.
“You are an honest man.” The bear spoke again without moving its jaws. It remained speaking to him exclusively. “But my master demands fair payment all the same.”
“I understand,” he nodded and closed his eyes. “Please, Great Bear if you must strike me down, allow my family the peace of ignorance. Do not take me here.”
“Your life is not payment enough, Everdeen.”  The bears’ words rocked him to his core. “You must give me your greatest treasure. From your two daughters, chose one, so I might take her with me.”
“Never,” he declared. “Strike me down where I stand, but never, not my daughters.”
“Papa!” His youngest exclaimed.
“You are a poor man, Everdeen.” The bear repeated. “Give me your eldest daughter and I will bathe you in riches. Your wife and child will have enough to eat for the rest of your days. But you must give me the eldest Everdeen, and never see her again, so your debt will be repaid.”
He choked on a sob, “No.” He insisted. “Take me and wipe my old debt clean and never darken my door again.”
The bear made a growling noise and turned its great head once more. His daughter gasped and he knew, it spoke to her alone.
“Katniss,” he begged. “Don’t.”
His daughter took her time straightening her spine and putting down her knife. She fixed her hair. She glanced at the bear once and strode up to her mother.
“I love you,” she whispered and embraced her once, doing the same to her sister a moment after.
“Katniss,” his voice turned desperate. “Please.”
She came up to him last. He was sequestered to the sofa unless someone else moved him first. She embraced him and his sobs escaped. His daughter was made of iron, and he knew nothing would bend her.
“Goodbye, Papa.” She whispered, squeezing his shoulders. “I love you.”
“Katniss!” He cried after her, his voice bouncing off against the walls long after she was gone.
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moulin-girault · 6 months
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Au milieu des cyclamens sauvages…
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